


I - V

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Irene, Anniversary, Announcements, Biting, Blow Jobs, Breakfast, Cab Rides, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergence - The Lying Detective, Coffee, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, EVERYTHING GOES WRONG, Early Mornings, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Happy Ending, Hugs, I Love You, Irene Adler Wears Sherlock Holmes's Clothes, Irene Is Safe, Irene Returns, Irene Wearing Sherlock's Coat, John and Mary's Wedding, Karachi, London, Mentioned Mycroft Holmes, Mentions of Masturbation, Mile High Club, Morning After, Morning Kisses, Morning Sex, Naked Female Clothed Male, Naked Male Clothed Female, Naked Sherlock, Near Death Experiences, No Longer A Secret Relationship, No Longer In Hiding, POV Alternating, POV Irene Adler, POV Sherlock Holmes, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 04, Purple Shirt of Sex, Relationship Discussions, Sharing Clothes, Sherlock Cooking, Sherlock Texting, Sherlock's Coat, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Snippets, Texting, Vaginal Fingering, Welcome Home, caressing, first I love yous, hair grabbing, irene texting, moments in a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14579361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: Five moments in the developing relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladytudorrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladytudorrose/gifts).



> So **ladytudorrose** recently requested a fic from me with the prompt " _Sherlock finally admits his feelings for Irene, a little fluff, a little smut, and some constantly shifting power dynamics as neither of them wants to be vulnerable._ " I decided to approach this as a sort of "five times" fic where I highlighted five moments in the evolution of their relationship building up to the actual prompt being addressed in the fifth part, which will break from canon.

**I**   
A Plane Headed Towards New York City   
_July 2011_

Sentiment.

Sentiment had made him a fool, just like he had known it would. He owed her nothing and yet the moment he had heard of the threat issued by the terrorist organization and their capture of an American expat with a British accent he knew he would not rest until Irene Adler was safe.

Sentiment had made him a fool.

But sentiment had kept Irene alive to barter her secrets another day.

He had called in a favour to a friend, and currently, they were in a private jet somewhere on their way to New York City. Where Irene would go from there he didn’t know, but it was a good place for one to lose themselves to the masses. He would return to London and the world would think her dead. Or perhaps not; he had the feeling Mycroft would make sure that while the general public never was aware of the execution of Irene Adler, those who needed to be assured of her death would be made well aware.

And Irene would be safe.

Or, rather, safe _r_.

He watched her doze in the seat next to him, curled up into a small tight ball with the exception of an arm snaked around his waist, resting lightly where the seat belt would go when it was time to land. He rather relished the warmth, he realized, but he would never in a million years admit it. There was a sense of being wanted in this minute gesture, even if she didn't realize she was doing it, even if she removed it upon waking.

He shut his eyes and began restructuring her room in his mind palace. They had talked on their way out of Karachi towards safety, hushed conversations to pass the time as they were smuggled to safer places. And there was closeness. He could now imprint the feel of her body against his in various positions, the smell of her hair, the smell of _her_ , the sound of her voice…

It was with a start he was brought out of his thoughts by the realization her hand had drifted and her arm had been pulled back. Irene was awake, and if the incessant caressing of the bulged part of his trousers was any indication, she wanted him.

No less than he wanted her, he supposed.

It was strange to find this need to further imprint her, all of her, into his mind palace being so insistent. Sex was merely an activity he did with great irregularity to clear his mind, occasionally to stimulate it. Normally any time he truly needed to think he went to his room and let his mind wander along the images John kept carefully concealed on his laptop. Truthfully he didn’t really need them, but the erotic pictures of women had given him a focus as he stroked himself until he came. That release was usually enough.

But...now he wanted her. That was strange.

He could feel himself harden under her ministrations, and he turned to look at her. Yes, eyes open, wide awake now. They did not speak as she deftly undid the button of his trousers and then carefully lowered the zipper over his erection. He never wore pants, and so when his length was free she grasped it in her hands, stroking him and teasing the tip with her thumb. He knew then he would never do to imagine anything other than her hands on him when he spent time trying to clear his mind. The touch was gentle and firm and--

His mind suddenly stopped when she slid off her seat and knelt in front of him. Her hair was not pulled back, and when she put her mouth on him, sucking and licking and curling her tongue around his erection, all he could see was her hair falling over her face. Hair he needed to touch, needed to grasp. 

He curled his fingers in her tresses, trying carefully not to force her to take him deeper than she intended by pistoning his hips upward, but she surprised him yet again, deep-throating the length of him. He tilted his head back and he couldn’t help his involuntary reaction as he came and she swallowed every last drop of him.

There was still a long flight ahead of them, and he knew, before they landed and went their separate ways, he would return the favour and then some.

Sentiment owed her that much.


	2. Chapter 2

**II**   
A Small Apartment In La Jolla   
_January 2012_

It was official: she had beaten the great Sherlock Holmes.

She knew this because the sun was creeping up to shine full blast through her open windows and here he was, still in her bed. Sound asleep, not a care in the world.

Well...maybe one care.

She stood at the window, gazing out with nothing on except a silk chemise. Sherlock apparently liked the room cool and she could see her erect nipples tenting out the fabric at her chest while she tried to warm her hands around a mug of coffee. She had expected him to be awake by now. Hell, she had honestly expected him to be gone. The escape from Karachi had been one thing…

This was quite another.

She blew at the steam and took a sip. Rich and velvety, with just some cream and sugar. She liked her coffee simple because even now, nothing else in her life was simple, not while she was still on the run. Sherlock had assured her those who were looking for her were o longer on her scent but it lingered, the fear that she might make one misstep and off with her head again.

She felt safe with Sherlock, though.

Sherlock, with his short ginger hair, too short to properly pull when he was between her legs, using that tongue of his so exquisitely. She could feel a dampness between her legs just thinking of the night before. She hadn’t asked how he had found her, she hadn’t asked what he needed because he had captured her mouth with his and his tongue was plundering her mouth like an archaeologist at a dig and soon she was digging her nails into his back as he fucked her against the wall, just barely managing to get her knickers off without ripping them and his trousers to the floor.

And then there had been the kitchen counter…

...the living room floor…

...the shower…

...and eventually the bed. 

And two times there, for good measure. He had stretched it out between sessions with kissing. She never let anyone kiss her, not even Kate, and yet here she was, craving his lips on her lips and her skin and everywhere she could think of. She knew it didn’t take much to get him erect; she hadn’t even needed to use any special skills she had learned, he was simply ready as soon as she was. How had she not bedded him before the plane? Oh, what a waste.

They would have so little time now, even if he was asleep in her bed. She knew, eventually, the spider’s ghost would come calling and he’d need to clear out more webs scattered here and there and everywhere. And she couldn’t come along, not without risking her safety.

But she could encourage him to come back.

She actually wanted him to come back, and not just because the shagging was good. She felt safe with Sherlock, and safety was a commodity in short measure right now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by arms around her waist, a nose nuzzling the side of her neck and a raging erection pressed against her back. “I don’t have much time left,” Sherlock murmured.

“I know,” she said, tilting her head as he pressed a kiss at her pulse point as his hand traveled lower, settling into the curls of the hair at the apex of her thighs. Oh, he was going to put those talented fingers to use, she realized with a smile as he began to move his fingers between her slick folds, being careful to only brush her clit. His teeth came out and he bit her lightly as she moaned.

Oh, God, she was a loss. She was losing herself to this man who she had admired for his brain and his body and she wanted everything he would give her, she realized as he slipped a finger inside her and began to move with a rhythm she soon hoped would be made by his cock deep inside her. She was going to give him whatever she wanted.

Even if she got nothing in return.

Even if he never came back.

Even if…

Fuck.

She was falling for him. And she didn’t care.

But she would never ever tell him.


	3. Chapter 3

**III**   
A Cab Traveling Through London   
_May 2014_

Would one dance have been so much to ask?

Not with anyone in particular, just...one dance. He had wanted one dance at the wedding and instead he found himself alone in a crowd of people, just as he always did. What he wanted, once again, didn’t matter. But there was happiness behind him, and he supposed he was grateful for that.

Even if he was alone again.

He barely thought of anything on the ride back towards Baker Street, almost missing the signature ringtone as it sounded. Not a text; a phone call. What a rare thing that was between them. “Do you still have spies set on me?” he asked Irene, amusement in his voice as the cab pulled up to his home.

“Not me, but your brother,” Irene said, her tone warm. “He thought tonight might be difficult.”

“And he alerted you?” Sherlock asked.

“He does have your phone’s contents copied to a computer on a regular basis remotely,” she said with a soft laugh. He pulled his mobile away and glared at it, resolving to get a new one in the morning before putting it back to his ear. “Get back in the cab.”

“I’m home,” he said, almost pouting.

“But that’s not where I am.”

His eyes widened and he got back into the cab, relaying the address that Irene gave him to the cabbie. He knew the fair was going to be exorbitant because the location was on the outskirts of London. Of course she wouldn’t risk going to London proper; even if Mycroft had sussed out she was alive and he was aware of which of her enemies may have doubted her death was genuine, coming out in London was a risk, and he knew it was one she wouldn’t take.

Not even for him.

But near London…that was a different matter.

The ride seemed to take forever and he found himself eager as a schoolboy. There had been liaisons while he was taking down Moriarty’s web, the few times he had managed to get to Southern California. He had always made sure he could stay for a time and they spent much of it shagging. Sometimes there was a nice dinner, and once there was a trip to the cinema where they had been particularly naughty with her hand wrapped around his length as she stroked him, teasing him to a frenzy and then stopping. As soon as they had gotten to somewhere with some semblance of privacy he had shown her that there were consequences for teasing him as he took her from behind in a darkened alley. He couldn’t wait and that thrill he had been chasing so long, that thrill of doing something that could ruin everything at a moment if they were spied in that alley or if one of them was too loud…

But Irene had behaved even as she had said decidedly naughty things in French as long as she could speak without moaning.

There was a shift in power between them with each encounter, each visit. Neither of them wanted to give more than what they were willing, and the other was always willing to take just that and no more. He could be...different...with her, have some semblance of...something.

Friends with benefits, perhaps, though back then he wouldn’t really have considered them friends.

Now, though? Now was a different matter. Texts arriving at odd times, the moan bringing flashes of memory each time it sounded. His cock twitched at the sound he had made sure to carry over with each phone he had, and there were nights he would idly play the sound in the privacy of his bedroom. Their conversations always had a sexual teasing edge to them, as though this was a game of sorts, but he had concluded before tonight that it was more than a game. Whatever it was, it was genuine.

But he wasn’t ready to give in just yet.

She stayed mostly silent during the ride, not prodding him into a conversation as she usually did, humming to let him know she was still on the line. He took comfort in that, another element of Irene to add to her room in his mind palace. It had doubled in size over their encounters while he was away and their continued conversations since his return, and it gave him a strange sort of comfort since he had thought that would be the end of it all between them, physically, at least.

Tonight would be special in more ways than one.

Once the cab pulled up to the cottage he handed the driver a handful of bills, most likely more than the ride actually cost, but the eagerness in him was at an all-time high. He waited for the cab to leave and then walked to the door and pocketing his mobile before he knocked.

The door open and Irene stood there in a very familiar coat, belted at the waist. If he guessed correctly, she wasn’t wearing anything else except perhaps expensive perfume. But his mouth was watering at the sight even as his mind was saying he should be upset she was at his flat.

“It’s been a while,” She said, tilting her head as her hand went to the belt of his Belstaff and she undid it. The coat opened and he saw nothing except her pert breasts and neatly trimmed curls at the apex of her thighs, and the only thing he could think of before she stepped closer and pulled him into the cottage was _Welcome home, Irene. I missed you greatly._


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**   
A Cottage On The Outskirts Of London   
_July 2011_

_John finally sussed out it’s my birthday._

Irene was curled up on her favorite chair in the cottage, a beat-up purple monstrosity that the previous owners had left that was honestly almost as comfortable as the most expensive memory foam mattress. It wasn’t quite large enough to be considered a love seat but she and Sherlock had figured out ways to both fit on it. She typed a reply to him quickly. _It’s a good thing you’re still alive to see it._

She was so angry at him, she really was. And it was his birthday and she wanted to invite him to her home and celebrate in private, but the git had nearly drugged himself to death and then let himself be beaten closer to death by John Watson and _then_ for good measure, nearly succumbed to that sociopath.

It hadn’t struck her until she’d gotten the _He’s alive. Barely._ text from Dr. Hooper that she had asked for when he had told her she was in on his plan that she broke down into tears. He was an idiot. A smart man like him had done the most idiotic thing possible and nearly killed himself to complete a twofold mission.

If he came over she just might strangle him and pick up where Culverton Smith left off.

When she had sobbed in relief she knew, then, that she loved him. She may have beaten him, but it was mutual in that he had stolen the heart she hadn’t been quite sure she’d had. Their times lately had been more domestic than anything else. He would stay the night and they would wake up with legs entangled and arms wrapped around each other and her head was usually on his chest, listening to the soothing sound of his heartbeat. After being alone for so long, she had found...a partner, if nothing else.

And the prat had almost thrown his life away as though it meant nothing.

But it meant something to _her_ and she was going to make him understand when she was less pissed about the situation.

_Mycroft had a birthday present for me. And for you._

He was trying to change the subject, the bastard. _Another ashtray from Her Majesty?_

_You can come to London proper. We can be out together. You don’t have to hide anymore._

She stared at her phone in shock. What exactly did Sherlock _mean_? This was not the sort of thing one dropped in a text message. She immediately pulled up his contact and called him, not waiting for an answer. She knew the ringtone would give it away. “Sherlock, that is not a funny joke. None of this is funny, but dangling _that_ in front of me...”

“You’ve been pardoned by Her Majesty insofar as what you’ve done in Britain. You also have a state of...not quite immunity, as Mycroft explained it, but if anyone comes looking for you they’ll have British intelligence to deal with and a rather irritated big brother of mine. He’s supposed to contact you tomorrow to work out deals of your partnership.”

“So why are _you_ telling me?” she asked, getting out of her chair to pace.

“Because I want you here, with me at Baker Street. Molly says I’ll live, John has left and there is some time before I’m being dragged off to a birthday celebration.” He paused. “And I want to see you, before all that. After that. As often as possible.”

Irene immediately sat on the chair again, utterly dumbfounded. “A relationship, Sherlock? Is that what you want?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“If you’ll have me. I’m no good at them, but...”

“I’m not a professional at them, either,” she pointed out. She crossed her legs on the chair. “I should make you suffer for nearly killing yourself or getting killed three times in the near past.”

“We could role play as nurse and patient,” he said.

“No. If I come over...sleep. And food. And I’m doing my own sweep for heroin.”

“Fine, fine, Mycroft beat you to it.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do.”

“Well, about _you_ , not that Mycroft beat me to cleaning out Baker Street of your drug paraphernalia.” Sherlock chuckled. “What is so funny?”

“You admitted you cared.”

“You’re an arse,” she said, but she smiled. “Hadn’t you realized that by now?”

“I’d hoped. I hadn’t been sure.”

“Well, see about keeping yourself awake long enough for me to pack a few things and get to you. You can rest after the party.”

“Come with me?”

She felt her heart skip a beat at the request. “Are you sure?”

“John said to grasp opportunities before they were gone, in his own way. With you. And I think it might be a good start tonight.”

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll go with you. But if you introduce me as your girlfriend I’ll step on your foot with the heel of my Louboutins.”

“It’s a deal,” he said, and there was a click on his end to let her know he had ended the phone call. She pulled her mobile down and looked at it. This was a step she had never imagined them taking, but it felt...right. It felt good.

It felt perfect.


	5. Chapter 5

**V**   
221 Baker Street   
_July 2018_

She was still asleep. Good.

He pulled himself away from her as slowly as possible as to not wake her. It was a task easier said than done as her head had been resting on his chest, but he managed with only a soft grunt coming from Irene. He pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms and then made his way out into the kitchen area, ready to get to work.

He tried very hard to be quiet, but he had not managed to be quiet enough, he realized an hour later when he felt a kiss square in the middle of his bare back. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” he said with a groan.

“And you’re supposed to be in bed with me instead of making a...” She moved next to him and he saw she was wearing his purple shirt. Well, hers now, he supposed. It went with her to her cottage every time she left Baker Street. Not that that was often, but she said it was his purple shirt of sex and it was hers and he could deal with it. He just let her have it and bought another one and she’d filch that one too. He gave up owning purple shirts after six months.

Though now...seven years. Seven years that they had been entwined around each other in a very personal way, from the flight to New York to now. Seven years they had been in each other’s orbit.

Seven years he had resisted saying three words to her, just as she had resisted saying them to him. Oh, he was sure she loved him, just as he was sure he loved her, but _saying_ those words...it hadn’t been done.

And he was going to rectify that.

He had nearly lost her the year before to a sister he hadn’t known he had. A coffin, a timer, a poisonous gas and a puzzle. He had saved Irene and for a time after Sherrinford things had changed between them. He pushed her away or at least tried to. She never budged.

That was when he realized how important to him she had truly become. That was when he realized he needed her like he needed his next breath.

That was when he knew, even without saying it out loud to anyone other than himself, that he loved her.

He kept waiting for the perfect moment to tell her until Molly damn near tore his head off, reminding him of the events at Sherrinford and told him to get off his arse and finally admit he loved her before she locked the two of them in the medical supply cabinet with audio surveillance inside. He had asked for enough time to do it _properly_ at least.

She said by their anniversary or else.

She ended up giving him six more months because to her, and to John and his brother and everyone else, this entanglement between them had only become official on his birthday. But there was a different anniversary that mattered. The day of the flight, when he first relinquished control to Irene and she rewarded him well.

He turned his attention back to her when she fingered the ruined crepes he’d been attempting to make. “Crepes,” he said. “They were supposed to be crepes. They’re more like a mess now.” He sighed and set the batter down, pulling her into his embrace. “I wanted today to be memorable.”

“Considering you barely do anything related to food more than dialing memorized numbers of takeaway places, it truly is the thought that counts,” she said, looking up at him with a smile. She leaned in and kissed him softly. “Breakfast at the cafe instead?”

“I love you, Irene.”

He stilled and looked at him with wide eyes. “Sherlock...”

“Seven years ago we were on a flight to New York City. I thought that would be the last time I ever saw you. But we’re like...magnets. We pull apart, we snap back together. And I’ve known for ages even if I didn’t realize it that I love you and I don’t want to be pulled apart again. Next time, we may not snap back together.”

She reached up to caress both sides of his face. “We’ll always snap back together,” she said. “And Sherlock?”

“Yes?” he murmured.

She smiled at him with the warmth of a sun going supernova. “I love you too.”

He felt his open lips curl upward and soon he pushed away from the counter, lifting her up and twirling her around as she rained kisses down on him. Breakfast might be a miss, but he had definitely hit the mark in other matters. He just hoped his suggestion of marriage would be well received…

...but later. _Much_ later, if he was lucky.


End file.
